


Idolatry

by starfishing



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-01
Updated: 2007-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishing/pseuds/starfishing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've never offered explanations or excuses. None of them have. Only once has Seiichi ever asked for one, and he received the sort of helpless uncomfortable shrug that comes from not understanding your own feelings, or not being able to express them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idolatry

Fourteen-year-olds shouldn't be bitter. Seiichi knows this. But when something — anything — means as much to you as tennis does to him, to the people he knows and hates and cares about, bitterness comes along with exhilaration, with triumph, with sheer and overwhelming _feeling_. Most fourteen-year-olds don't feel that, either.

And it's easy to be bitter; so much easier than it would be to smile and understand and accept no explanation and no excuse. They've never offered explanations or excuses. None of them have. Only once has Seiichi ever asked for one, and he received the sort of helpless uncomfortable shrug that comes from not understanding your own feelings, or not being able to express them. Perhaps Sanada had been the wrong person to ask.

Would Tezuka know? Do you know that kind of thing about yourself? Seiichi isn't sure. But Tezuka can't be blind to what goes on around him, surely. Sanada, Atobe, Fuji, Echizen — he is the standard to which all of them aspire. Seiichi has ten times his charisma and all of his leadership and at least all of his tennis, if not more, and he knows — _knows_ he could wipe the court with each of them, Tezuka included, so _why_?

The familiar grip of his racket, the sound of the ball on his strings, on the court, on the wall; these things are soothing, and they are the only answer he has. A midnight haunt at Rikkai's courts, smashing ball after ball against the wall until his muscles burn as much as his eyes do, and he can feel the weak flutter in his legs telling him to stop before he's forced to.

On the bench, stretched out and staring at the blurry sky, Seiichi pulls his cell phone from his pocket. He scrolls slowly through the numbers stored, bypassing one comfort after another until he finds what he is looking for and places the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" The voice is vaguely drowsy, and Seiichi wonders if he's woken him. In the silence that follows, the greeting is repeated, and it's another moment still before Seiichi finds a reply.

"Tezuka. It's Yukimura."

A beat of silence passes. Seiichi knows he is thinking, _At half-past one in the morning?_ and _What could possibly be wrong?_ , and suddenly, he wants to hang up.

Instead, he says quietly, "Can we play?" because it's the only thing that makes sense right now. Tennis.

"Now?" Seiichi hears more curiosity than incredulity, so he continues.

"I can catch a train and meet you halfway."

Tezuka pauses, then, "Setagaya, the court near Kitami Station?" It's further for Tezuka than it is for Seiichi, but Seiichi doesn't argue.

The train ride is surreal. It's not crowded at this hour, and the lights cast an eerie atmosphere over the empty seats. Seiichi's sitting because he doesn't care to stand, especially when there's so much space to slump down and feel sorry for yourself on a train at this time of night.

He doesn't know his way around Setagaya, but he knows every outdoor court in North Kanagawa and Tokyo, and he's there ten minutes before Tezuka is.

Tezuka passes him a nod, but doesn't speak as they both get out their rackets and prepare. As they walk onto the court, Seiichi says, "One-set match; you serve."

Seiichi plays mindlessly for two games, but comes around when he realizes that Tezuka's drawn him in — the bastard hasn't moved from his spot in the last game. He refocuses and breaks the Zone without much effort. Tezuka doesn't comment and he doesn't try again.

Neither of them push themselves as hard as they can, and Seiichi loses the tiebreak when the ball gets too blurry to see. No referee calls the score, and Tezuka doesn't, either, but Seiichi hears it in his head: _Game, set and match won by Tezuka, seven games to six._ He wipes his eyes and leans on the net when he reaches it.

When Tezuka takes his hand, he dips his head to meet Seiichi's eyes. He looks concerned, and more human than Seiichi can remember seeing before.

"Is everything okay?" Tezuka asks, and Seiichi has a vivid flash of Sanada, awkward and floundering — asking stupid questions for lack of knowing what else to say or do. He laughs, and it startles Tezuka, if the other boy's abrupt straightening is any indication.

"No," Seiichi says, and he wants to add a million other things, but none of them step forward to be said.

Tezuka releases his hand, but slowly, as if he might like an excuse to keep it there. He presses Seiichi no further.

The dam is broken, anyway.

"Everyone looks to you."

Thoughtfully, Tezuka says, "No."

"But they do," Seiichi persists. "Sanada, Atobe, Echizen — they chase your heels."

This time, Tezuka doesn't reply, and Seiichi wonders if he merely misunderstood the first time. "You're the standard by which they judge themselves," he articulates carefully, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "and I don't understand why."

"Neither do I."

The two of them stare at each other in pensive silence until Seiichi's legs give out, and Tezuka is suddenly over the net, pulling him upright with surprisingly gentle hands. Seiichi never hit the ground.

Without a word, Tezuka carries him to the bench. Everything in Seiichi wants to object, to push him away and walk, himself, but he knows that he _can't_ , and it's just one more thing to be bitter about.

"I hate you," he says into Tezuka's shoulder as he's let down. Tezuka doesn't answer again, and again Seiichi thinks of Sanada, artless and uncertain, and he realizes then that Tezuka and Sanada aren't that different — Tezuka and Seiichi aren't that different.

They're nothing more than boys; self-conscious and graceless, stumbling over their own feelings and their words. Tezuka's just as confused as Seiichi is, if not as hurt.

Tezuka sits carefully beside him, and Seiichi closes his eyes against more tears and his own epiphany. Like Sanada and all the others who continue to pursue Tezuka, Seiichi mistakenly believed that Tezuka was something above them, something to be obtained. Something other than what they all are, when it all boils down. Tezuka's nothing more than the rest of them.

The night has been long, and Seiichi's body has been tried. He drifts to sleep, his head coming to rest on Tezuka's shoulder. Tezuka doesn't wake him. The sun will break over them in a few hours' time, and Tezuka has always enjoyed watching the sun rise.


End file.
